Hi Delilah Fans! Hope you have a safe and warm holiday season. Now that all the excitement is dying down, I’ve got something to talk about.

Addiction. It’s a horror show for everyone it touches, and I’ll bet that most of you are touched by it, one way or the other. Fortunately—I guess—the addiction that touches me isn’t opiates or meth. It’s alcohol.

Alcohol is one of those ubiquitous parts of our world that almost everyone enjoys, a sociable, relaxing, and tasty treat. It’s been part of the human experience since pre-history. According to a February 2017 article in National Geographic, “Chemical analysis recently showed that the Chinese were making a kind of wine from rice, honey, and fruit 9,000 years ago. In the Caucasus Mountains of modern-day Georgia and the Zagros Mountains of Iran, grapes were one of the earliest fruits to be domesticated, and wine was made as early as 7,400 years ago.”

Plenty of evidence suggests that from the earliest days of mankind, intoxicants—especially alcoholic drink—have been at the foundation of religion, creative arts, and even the development of language. It seems that getting out of our minds actually helps us get into our minds.

That out-of-mind aspect, unfortunately, can become a serious problem for those who can’t get far enough or often enough out of their minds, and take up substance abuse as a way of life. Some even argue that substance abuse isn’t a matter of deciding anything, that compulsive consumption is an illness that we may be predisposed to due to genetics and/or early childhood experience.

It’s said that alcoholism accounts for around 88,000 deaths every year and costs the nation billions. On a personal level, suffering addiction or experiencing the troubles of a loved one with addiction is a tragedy that seems never-ending. So when I wrote alcoholism into a character in my most recent novel, Refuge in His Arms, it was a choice I made with some hesitation.

No one wants to relive painful experiences. Romance novels aren’t exactly a place where you expect to think about addiction. No one experiences difficult relationships in the same way. But alcoholism and other forms of addiction are pervasive. Characters without flaws are simply not believable.

My story isn’t meant to be a definitive analysis of alcoholism, and the character of David isn’t just about his love of drink. By the time we see him in this story, the worst of his struggle is behind him.

But like compulsive behavior for anyone, the tendency is never far away. And as David Evans shows us in this novel, when the right circumstances arise, the desire for that mind-numbing relief becomes a battle all over again.

I’m giving a discount coupon (GC48J) for Refuge in His Arms. It’s good for three days only, January 12-14, at Smashwords. If you have opinions about the issue of addiction, alcoholism, or if you read the story and have comments, I’d love to hear them. You can email me at ashworthlizzie@gmail.com.

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Here’s hoping your shiny new 2018 is another step toward your happiness! ~ Lizzie

A few years ago, my granddaughter self-published two novels on Amazon, at the age of fourteen. I was impressed with this and decided to try writing a novel myself, after all they do say everyone has a book in them. I thought that at the very least it would be a good mental exercise for my then sixty-nine-year-old brain. How much exercise I could never have imagined.

I believed the younger generation thought most people over the age of sixty had one foot in the grave, and were just killing time until the grim reaper claimed them. But, I knew that wasn’t the case for many people, so I looked for a way to write something to show them in a positive light.

I got the idea to write a romance, with the hero and heroine being over sixty. And, I came up with the idea of my characters being residents at a retirement village that was pretty much a private 5* hotel. There was a lot of scope for activities and relationships and I was sure the idea would work.

Unfortunately, I had virtually no previous writing experience or training and no idea about planning, outlining, plotting etc. So, the book started off as a series of conversations, and developed slowly from there. Sadly, my inexperience meant that a lot of what I wrote wasn’t very good, and I had to throw away a lot of material as the book developed and the story just didn’t work properly. This meant the book took a lot longer than I had initially expected it to.

I submitted a sample chapter to a publisher to see if it fitted with the sort of work they publish, and it did. After a year of rewriting and polishing the manuscript I submitted it and ten months ago I won a publishing contract. Now, at the age of seventy-three, my debut novel, Grace’s Turmoil has been published today as Book One of a series called Not Too Old for Love.

It seems that over recent years more and more readers of romance have become frustrated that all the heroines they read about were aged about twenty, whilst they were on average at least ten years older. Now it seems that there are a growing number of authors writing for this new market, which seems to be being referred to as Seasoned Romance, Second Chance Romance, and the like. I’m proud to be a part of that growing band of authors trying to respond to this demand.

Grace’s Turmoil

Divorced and emotionally damaged, artist Grace Stollery wants nothing more than to spend her semi-retirement painting and let time heal her emotional scars.

But when dashing widower Alfred Nobel moves into her retirement village he turns her life upside down and her heart inside out by awakening feelings she wants to keep dormant.

Alfred quickly sets out to woo Grace and slowly she warms to him. But the village’s resident femme fatale wants him for herself. Will she succeed in driving a wedge between Alfred and Grace?

Get your copy here!

Excerpt

Grace jabbed at the volume button on the remote control, turning up the sound on the television. She was trying to drown out the chatter which filled the palatial residents’ lounge. It had been like that for days, and she’d grown tired of it. Who would have thought the imminent arrival of one man could affect mature ladies like that?

One of the things which had appealed to her when she moved to The Grange retirement village was the lack of men. Yet a man who aroused feelings in her she didn’t want was going to add to their number.

Grace had caught a glimpse of him across The Lounge a few months ago, taking the standard tour of The Grange. He’d towered over the young woman he’d been with, and she’d guessed he was at least six-foot-five. Built like a tank, with a mass of wavy white hair and a snow-white beard, he’d reminded her of a polar bear. His presence had been overpowering and almost menacing. An image of him defending a seventeenth century mansion in days gone by had jumped into her mind.

Looking at him had sent a spontaneous burst of attraction rippling through her. It had caught her by surprise. Becoming attracted to anybody was the last thing she’d needed right then. Her divorce had been too recent and too painful. All she wanted was to focus on her painting to block out the pain. Although she hadn’t come there to look for a man, there was no denying how she’d reacted to the sight of him. She wondered how she would cope when they met. And she couldn’t help feeling he was going to have quite an impact on her life. Whether it would be a good impact or not was the million-dollar question. He might be the greatest thing since sliced bread! Or he could turn out to be a snake in the grass like her ex-husband.

About the Author

Peter Perrin writes sweet, seasoned romances involving larger-than-life mature characters who will make you rethink your views on older people in a positive way. His characters are mature in age but not necessarily in their behaviour. They may not be in the first flush of youth but that doesn’t stop some of them acting like hormonal teenagers.

Peter was born in Romford, in the county of Essex, near London, England. For nearly twenty years he has lived with his wife of almost forty years in a quiet suburb of Swindon, in the county of Wiltshire, in England. He is a father and grandfather.

He is a former member of The Royal Air Force who has served in the UK, and in Madagascar, Singapore, and Saudi Arabia. He was also stationed for two years in Aden—which nowadays is part of Yemen.

After almost fifteen-years’ service in The Royal Air Force Peter worked in Engineering, Quality Control, and Procurement Management, not to mention myriad smaller jobs in between those careers.

Now retired Peter’s interests are Writing, Carp Fishing, and (despite being in his early seventies) PC and PlayStation games.

His favourite quote is “Youth passes, but with luck, immaturity can last a lifetime.”

Website: https://peterperrin.blog
Blog: https://peterperrin.blog
Twitter: https://twitter.com/peterperrin44
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/PeterPerrin44/
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.co.uk/peterperrin/
Goodreads Author Page: https://www.goodreads.com/PeterPerrin
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B078J3NVHW

This one’s releasing sometime early Tuesday morning, but I thought you might like to take a peek inside first! Hope you love the excerpt! Information regarding the contest is at the bottom of this post! ~DD

Pre-order your copy here!

Read an excerpt!

When the DJ’s speaker set crashed to the floor as the first women to arrive rushed the tables nearest the stage, Tara Toomey scrambled for a replacement and chalked the mishap up to high spirits.

When one of the volunteers carrying a tray of Jell-O shots tripped, and cherry and lime gelatin slid in glistening trails down his face and naked chest, she laughed as eager women offered to lick him clean.

However, it wasn’t until one of her staff whispered in her ear that she knew she was in for a long night. The main attraction had yet to arrive.

She crushed her dog-eared copy of the “Hook-up” program in her fist and headed toward the old-fashioned, double swinging doors, ready to stomp all the way to Redbone Ranch to drag his butt to town.

As she passed excited, tittering women her smile felt strained, and her nerves stretched taut. The “Annual Honky-tonk Hook-up” had always been a good time, but this year she wished she hadn’t been so quick to volunteer her bar again. Sure, it was good for business and many of the “blow-ins” from Houston, San Antonio, and San Angelo returned throughout the year because they enjoyed the event and Paraiso’s authentic western ambience.

But Tara wished she could return home, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over her head. The last thing she felt ready to do was watch one particular cowboy strut his stuff across the stage and land in some other woman’s clutches—even if it was just one night, completely innocent, right, and for a really good cause. The fact he might blow off the auction pissed her off almost as much as the thought of the spectacle he’d cause if he did finally make an entrance.

If anyone thought splintered speaker casings or a little spilled Jell-O were trouble, they hadn’t seen a room full of women erupt in the wake of one seriously sexy cowboy. Read the rest of this entry »

Hello, I’m Sierra Brave, multi-published author of steamy, spine-tingling romance. Thanks so much to Delilah Devlin for having me guest on her blog today. It’s a pleasure.

After I wrote Crystal Coast Christmas, a relative of mine had the nerve to ask, “Who goes to the beach at Christmas time?”

I’m sorry, but, say what?

At the time, I simply explained my main characters, Jessica and Chase, lived at the coast year round; but even if they didn’t, is there anything better than a day at the beach? No matter if the weather is hot or cold, I love the sand and surf. Even if I don’t dip a single toe into the water, I enjoy a trip to the coast. The minute I set eyes on the ocean, my entire body relaxes. I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels this way. In fact, medical research indicates, “Staring at the ocean actually changes our brain waves’ frequency and puts us into a mild meditative state.”

The waves aren’t the only relaxing element either. The beach offers a feast for many of the senses. Even the smell of the salt in the sea air refreshes and energizes me. Combine the beach and romance and a recipe for love emerges, and I wrote all the books in the Crystal Coast series with that concept in mind.

CRYSTAL COAST CHRISTMAS

After escaping a bad relationship and moving into her aunt’s guest quarters, marine biologist Jessica Butler has sworn off love and relationships. Still, she can’t resist a night of no-strings passion with hunky soldier, Captain Chase Culpepper. Their evening sizzles, leaving Jessica satisfied but wary. Her ex did a great job of destroying her self-confidence, leaving Jessica reluctant to take the plunge into romance again. While Chase is asleep, Jessica runs.

Chase can’t believe he’s found his sexual equal in Jessica. When he wakes up alone the next morning, he’s determined to make Jessica his, in spite of her reluctance to put her heart on the line.

Jessica’s sworn off men for good, but the faster she runs, the more Chase finds to love about her. What will it take for him to win her trust and her love?

SNIPPET

Jessica closed her eyes, delighting in Chase’s touch. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had taken such time and care to fine-tune her body, testing her flesh to learn where to touch to make her scream. His mouth found her other breast, his tongue tracing the rosy circle.
She squirmed beneath him, bucking her hips, her nails raking across his broad shoulders and down his muscular back. He blazed a trail leading him to her navel, which he nibbled and kissed, making her squeal. “Oh, God!”

BUY LINKS
Amazon: http://a.co/1iv5HPM
Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/nz/book/crystal-coast-christmas/id1323820875
B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/crystal-coast-christmas-sierra-brave/1127628774
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/crystal-coast-christmas
Google: https://books.google.com/books?isbn=1682524337

CONTACT SIERRA
Email: sierra@sierrabrave.rocks
Twitter: @bravesierra
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Sierra-Brave-1422713414692067/
Website: http://sierrabrave.rocks/

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Read an excerpt from Lindsay McKenna’s heartwarming Boxcar Christmas! And if you’d like to read the story behind this book, head here: The story behind Boxcar Christmas.

CHAPTER 1

November 1
Hamilton, Montana

“It wasn’t much to look at. The wooden slats that made up the ancient red caboose were weathered, the boxcar sitting on the edge of a flat yellow grass meadow, backed by thousands of evergreens in western Montana. Early November wind whistled and cut at Jesse Myer’s exposed face. She felt the icy morning coldness seep through her rain dampened olive green Army jacket as she emerged cautiously out of the woods. She had discovered the boxcar while hunting rosehips scattered along the banks of the Bitterroot River. It was a source of protein for her tightened, gnawing stomach in want of food.

The large, oval-shaped meadow bordered the water and the rose hips were a substantial source of food when in the back country. She chewed slowly on another one, knowing it was packed with nutrition. Shivering, she felt hope spike through her as she walked out of the woods that lay west of Hamilton, a small hunting and fishing tourist town. She had followed the river in search of a place to pitch her tent outside the city limits.

Standing on the edge of the meadow, she fully surveyed it. It rained at dusk last night and then snowflakes had fallen thick and fast throughout the nighttime hours, and toward dawn the ground was covered with about six inches of the white stuff. As a gray dawn sluggishly crawled upon the eastern horizon, the flakes had turned into a soft, constant rain once more. Most of the snow had melted as the temperature rose, but patches of white still existed here and there–it was an Indian summer event. Jesse sincerely hoped that it meant warmer weather would come into the area and warm it up for a couple of weeks while she hunted for a place to live.

She’d discovered the ancient Union Pacific caboose at the edge of the meadow by accident. There was no telling how old it was, the slats of tongue-and-grove wood that composed its sides were worn , the paint chipped off but still solidly in place despite the harsh winter weather that it had obviously endured over the years. There were no railroad tracks around from what she could see. The under carriage of the caboose had been removed and it had been set upon a rectangular concrete slab, reminding her of the tiny house craze sweeping through her Millennial generation.

Her gaze absorbed the forty-foot long boxcar and she could see that at one time, it had been well cared for. But now, it looked utterly abandoned, the paint dull and peeling off the sturdy oak staves beneath it. Someone had brought this caboose out here. Was it someone who lived in Hamilton? Maybe the owner of this plot of land used it as a cabin to hunt and fish on weekends? Jesse had no idea, but there it was. Maybe it could be a possible home for her instead of the tent she had strapped to the huge knapsack she carried on her back. She wanted to make sure no one was living in it presently and thought about trespassing to find out–even though it went against her grain. Jesse couldn’t explain the allure to do just that.

She called out several times, her voice echoing around the meadow. There was no response or movement from inside the boxcar. The four windows along the meadow side were dirty, and she longed to clean them. Deciding either no one was home or living in it, she curved her hand around the rusted metal railing at the rear platform of the boxcar and took the first tentative step upward. The ends of each wooden step curved upward from age and now rested precariously on the metal frame beneath each one, the nails pulled out by rain and snow over the years. The step groaned. Not that she weighed that much. In the Army, she had been a hundred and sixty pounds; but three months ago, when she received an honorable medical discharge at the end of eight years of service, she had slowly lost at least twenty-five pounds due lack of appetite and no money to buy food. Her Army jacket, the only reminder of her life since age eighteen, hung loosely on her frame.

Her gloves were threadbare, her fingertips numb. She hauled herself up the rest of the creaking wooden steps and leaned forward, cupping her hands around her eyes and peering through the dirty glass of the door to see what was inside the caboose. It was a possible place to live but she had no money for a room rental. She’d just gotten a job at Katie’s Koffee Bean in Hamilton as a dish washer. But it was part time and Jesse had no money yet to rent a room in town, much less an apartment. She had lived in her tent since leaving the Army and was prepared to do it now, but maybe her luck was about to change.

Get your copy here!

When I was six years old, 1950, we lived on an island in the middle of the mighty Snake River near Ontario, Oregon. At six, I was going to the first grade. But there was a huge hurdle I had to walk every day to go meet the school bus. There was a huge train 3-span bridge stretching across the Snake River. And I had to walk it.

I don’t know if you can imagine this but my Scorpio mother taught me how to walk across it BY MYSELF after she showed me how to do it. There was a big problem: I was dizzied by the brownish/green water far below me if I looked down. And I’d lose my balance. The chances of me falling off the bridge were very real. Consequently, I learned to walk those trestles above the water WITHOUT LOOKING DOWN, which increased exponentially, my miscalculating and stumbling and thereby, pitching off the bridge, falling into the water and drowning. Even at five, I understand all of that! In 1950, there were no safeguards on bridges for anyone, much less a 5-year-old little girl.

My mother worked, so she too had to walk across that bridge twice a day, too. She would park our car on the bank, near the bridge, and walk across to our home on that island. She taught me that if a train came? I was to lay down in the middle of the tracks, flatten out and keep my arms and legs within the rails while the train passed above me. That way, I’d survive. Otherwise, I wouldn’t.

Now, it’s 2017. Can you imagine ANY mother doing that nowadays with a 5-year-old, much less a child of any age under 18? I’m sure you wouldn’t. She did NOT accompany me across the bridge after that—I was on my own. She was already at work and couldn’t do it even though she wanted too. My stepfather was too injured from the war to do much walking, so that was out, too. BUT….we had Blackie, an older Border Collie, who we found on the island when we moved into the house. He adopted us.

And he would accompany me to the bridge, stand watch, but not go across it because he was frightened of it, too. So was I. My greatest fear was not hearing a train coming behind me and then having to do my safety thing to survive it. That scared me more than walking across the three-span bridge. Blackie would then meet me in the afternoon when the school bus dropped me off and I had to walk the bridge to get back home.

I loved that dog with my life. He sensed how frightened I was of that bridge, sensing that if I looked down, I’d get dizzy, lose my balance and fall in and drown in the Snake River. He was my guardian.

I wanted to write a book about a Border Collie based upon my childhood experiences with Blackie. I wanted to honor him and his breed. So, there’s lots of wonderful emotions I was able to write into BOXCAR CHRISTMAS and I know my readers will feel it as they read Freya’s story of survival. And how she helped her 2 humans immensely and in important ways after they rescued her.

I went through a LOT of stock photos to find Blackie. I wasn’t sure I would, but as luck would have it, I did. And now the Border Collie on the book’s cover looks EXACTLY like my beloved Blackie. Every time I see that cover, I smile and my heart expands with love for my guardian angel dog who met me every day for a year when I had to walk that train bridge over the Snake River ;-).

BOXCAR CHRISTMAS

One train car. Two lost souls. Five adorable puppies.

Travis Ramsey is back in Hamilton, Montana, after 10 years serving as a Delta Force operator in Afghanistan. Now responsible for his dad’s fishing guide business, Travis has to deal with his increasingly distant and difficult father, and guilt over his brother’s death. His life takes a turn for the better when he meets Army vet Jesse Myers. Jesse is taken with his grandparent’s quirky boxcar cabin and wants to rent it. Taken by her beauty, and the familiar haunted look in her eyes, he makes her a deal. He will rent the boxcar to her for free in return for her help in making renovations.

Get your copy here!

Thank you so much, Delilah, for inviting me to visit your blog! I’m excited to be here!

Bad patches are a part of life, much as we might wish they weren’t. I’m just coming to the end of a bad patch myself – at least, I hope it’s the end! Following a bad fall on a running trail in the forest, I lost almost two solid months of work time while I was recovering from my injuries. Check out my website www.KaylaDrakeBooks.com for the story of that accident! All I can say is that I’m very grateful to be on the mend again.

My accident is nothing compared to what the characters in my new book have endured.

Daring Sarah

Sarah Williams can’t face the one-year anniversary of her husband’s tragic death, so she flees from Chicago to take the Scottish golf tour her husband had dreamed of doing someday. She has to live for both of them now, after all. While she’s there, she agrees to deliver a few small gifts to her friend Helen’s Scottish family. This puts her face to face with the grumpy, withdrawn, but incredibly handsome Duncan Mackenzie, a man haunted by a few ghosts of his own.

When Duncan promised his sister that he would welcome the American widow to Scotland, he’d expected to meet an elderly woman. Instead, he discovers a beautiful, willowy blonde who’s far too young to have faced such a tragedy. Suddenly, his own difficult past seems moderate in comparison. At least he survived. And now he wants to live again, really live, and it’s all because of Sarah.

Excerpt:

So she snuggled against his solid chest, there at the top of the spooky staircase, and whispered into his ear, “I’m not scared anymore. All my ghosts have gone away.”

“Ah, Sarah, I hope you mean that.” He wanted so much for it to be true. If she meant it, if her ghosts really had gone away, then he might have reason to hope.

He might have the freedom to kiss her, too. And more.

She felt so good in his arms, light and warm. Then way she curled into his chest, almost like a kitten, and the way her silky hair brushed against his throat–he needed her to mean it.

“Yes.” Her fingertips toyed with the hair at the back of his head. “I mean it.”

His self-control shattered. His body came alive with passionate need, and his face turned toward hers. This was what he wanted. This was what he needed, her warm breath against his cheeks and then her lips. He kissed her softly at first, wanting to draw her in. He needed to savor this moment.

But then he felt her reaction, almost like a sigh rippling through her body, and his yearning to taste her turned to something else. Something needy. Something demanding and insistent. He wanted to crush her against him, to feel every inch of her pliant flesh pressed against his length, to touch her and hold her close. He kissed her deeply, his tongue tasting hers, and almost without realizing it, he sat on one of the benches lining the hall. She was in his lap now and he didn’t have to hold her up. His hands were free to trace the curve of her waist, the flare of her hip, and the length of her thigh. Her fingers were buried in his hair, and even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t have pulled away from the kiss.

This was what he wanted. A week ago, he hadn’t even known that this was possible, and now here she was in his arms, and he never wanted to let her go.

Available on:
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